[SPN/BoB Big Bang] Free Until They Cut Me Down (2/6)
Once the sergeants stopped bellowing and the platoon stood in formation, all eyes were on Captain Winters. He was a tall, quiet redhead whom the Normandy vets worshipped and who awed the replacements; he watched his men with an expression of unshakeable calm.
“All right, men.” His voice carried without having to shout. “Remember, these are live rounds. This isn’t standard procedure, but there’s no substitute, and you don’t want to learn this in combat. Keep your heads down and be careful so you can make it to the objective safely. Doc Roe is right here if anybody needs him.” The solemn medic stood at Winters’ side, his hand already resting on his supply bag.
The morning was calm and quiet, save for the heavy breathing of the replacements. Winters nodded to his sergeants. Guarnere yelled for his squad to shoot high, and Grant ordered his boys to hit the ground. Dean dropped flat into the dirt. He stared at the soles of the boots in front of him, bracing himself for the opening shots. The chin strap on his helmet pinched against his throat. His amulet and dog tags dug into his chest.
The crack of ammunition came close on Guarnere’s word. Dean pushed himself forward, clutching his rifle. Hot bullet casings dropped out of the air. Some men cursed, but most stayed silent. Dean grappled with the raw earth, imagining mortar fire and German machine guns; he had to wonder if this was how it would be when it finally happened.
The platoon closed the fifty yards to the row of fresh trenches. They all survived. Winters nodded, and ordered the riflemen to reload.
* * *
“Get a load of this,” Babe muttered. He nodded at the civilian by the side of the road. The man was powerfully built, with a full graying beard and an ornate wooden cane. Pins studded his jacket, some presumably military, some unrecognizable. He tugged at his cap, calling out greetings to the American soldiers.
“He was at the pub last night,” said Dean, watching him.
“We go out and you notice that?” Babe snorted. “And here I thought you were trawling for girls.”
“I was,” Dean said, allowing himself a smile. “I just didn’t find the right one.”
Babe clucked his tongue. “Ah, see, that’s what you get for bein’ picky.”
“Boys!” the man called out as they approached. “Boys, what was all that? Surely the Krauts haven’t come over here.”
“Just a training exercise, buddy,” said Dean. “Nothing to worry about.”
The man leaned on his cane and took up the march beside them. “Listen to me, son. Those shots sounded real, and if you’re not using blanks, there’s things here in Wiltshire that need to be shot.”
“Yeah?” Dean glanced at Babe, who rolled his eyes. “Like who?”
“Not who,” the man said darkly. “What. Starting with that rabid dog that attacked your boys last night.”
Babe’s smirk fell away. “What?”
The man’s eyes went wide. “You haven’t heard this? Yes, two of your Airborne friends ran into a great horrible hound. One of them’s in hospital for it.”
Dean focused on his medals. “What’s your name, pal?”
“Willand,” he said, not flagging in the slightest. “Will you boys do us the favor of getting rid of it? I don’t like the thought of a great dangerous dog running around these parts.”
Dean adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “Well, Mr. Willand, if we see something, we’ll take care of it, how’s that?”
Willand beamed. “Bless you, son! Here, here, as a token of my appreciation.” He plucked a silver pin off his jacket and held it out. Somewhat bemused, Dean took it. “I’m going to warn the others,” Willand said earnestly, and stepped away from the column.
Babe twisted his head to watch him hail the rest of the platoon. “Well, looks like you made a new friend,” he said. “What’d he give you?”
Dean squinted. The pin was small, the size of a finger joint, but the detail was exquisite: a wild face peered out from a mane of leaves and vines. “It’s a Green Man,” he said, surprised, and looked over his shoulder. Willand was chatting with some replacements, his whole bearing animated.
“A what?” Babe held out his hand. “Lemme see that.” Dean handed him the pin. Babe whistled. “Yeah, you lucked out. Looks to me like he unloaded an ugly on you.”
Dean took it back. “Least he gives me presents when I volunteer to go dog-catching.”
Babe canted his head. “You ain’t gonna go looking for this dog, are you? I mean, you do stupid things for fun, sure, but that ain’t even perversely fun.”
“That pretty much sums it up,” Dean said. He stared at the Green Man. Its face told him nothing.
December 23, 1941
Lawrence County, South Dakota
Sam settles back in the armchair Indian-style, the enormous monograph spread over his knees. “You think we’ll get snowed in here for Christmas?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dean glances up from cleaning the guns. “It’d be almost as good as being snowed in at the library.”
“Shut up,” Sam says. “Anyway, don’t pretend like you don’t like it here too.”
Dean pointedly scans the cluttered room. “It’s Bobby’s house. We’ve been here tons of times.”
Sam bends his neck, eyes on his book. “I like it.”
Dean picks up a swab in one hand and the barrel of a sawed-off in the other. “Maybe Bobby can pick up the Minneapolis station. They’d know.”
“Yeah, good luck getting the radio on. Dad won’t want to listen to the news.” He turns a page. “I think he doesn’t want to hear about the war.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got good reason,” says Dean. “He already fought the Germans once. I’d be mad too if they didn’t learn their lesson.” Sam doesn’t reply, which Dean will take as a victory. They each turn to their tasks again in silence.
Bobby’s dog Pershing begins to bark outside. “There they are,” says Dean, and the front door swings open, welcoming in a shock of cold.
“Hey boys!” Bobby calls. Dean sets the shotgun on the table, and Sam follows him into the foyer, book tucked under his arm. Dad is twisting the lock shut, while Bobby lifts his eyebrows at them, mouth hidden behind his grizzled beard. “You been behaving?”
Dean pulls a wry face. “Not really, but we cleaned up pretty good, so nothing to worry about.” He hovers by Dad’s elbow. “You need any help with anything?”
Dad looks up and smiles a little. “Nah, we were offloading. Shop in Omaha had a pretty hungry buyer.”
Sam grins back at him. “What were you selling?”
Bobby rolls his shoulders. “Protective stuff, mostly. Charms, wards, sigils.” He sniffs. “Market for amulets has gone through the roof. People these days want good luck they can carry.”
“Let’s go inside to the fire, huh?” Dad ushers them back. “Your old man’s freezing.”
Bobby shrugs off his hefty coat and sets it on a hook. He looks down at Sam’s light reading. “You planning a trip to Central Asia?”
Sam displays a spread of grainy black and white photographs: Tibetan monasteries and Sanskrit lettering fill both pages. “It talks about tulpas,” he says eagerly. “They’re spirits you create with your mind.”
Dad cuffed him briefly around the shoulders. “Don’t need a spell to imagine things into life. Come on.”
“Is there going to be snow?” Sam asks, trailing after him.
“Don’t know,” says Dad. “We’ll see.”
The house is comfortable again with Bobby and Dad in it. Once news has been shared and coffee brewed, Dad sends Dean back to gun-cleaning, and Sam with him. He and Bobby take up seats at the kitchen table, quiet until the boys both leave. Dean settles into his routine, pouring over an old Smith & Wesson pistol they use for silver bullets. Sam curls up with his book again.
Dean’s ears prick up at the sound of Dad’s voice. “You hear about Wayne Stebbins?”
“Yup,” says Bobby. “Shame.” A chair in the kitchen creaks. “What was it, werewolf?”
Sam looks up from his pages. Dean holds a finger to his mouth.
“Spoke to Marlene myself. They think it was a demon.”
“Jesus.”
“There are barely hunters enough to take care of what we got,” sighs Bobby. “Last thing we need is demons getting stirred up.”
“You know they’re going to love this war,” says Dad, his voice flat. “God knows they did last time.”
“I saw it,” says Bobby, and both of them are quiet.
Sam looks at Dean, his brow knitted. “Demons?” he whispers.
“Shut up,” hisses Dean.
“You know Amy Wilkes,” Bobby says, “out in Charleston?”
“West Virginia?”
“South Carolina.” He pauses to take a slurp of coffee. “Had a letter that her boy’s joined the Navy.”
Dad grunts. “She mad?”
“As a hellcat. Thinks he’ll be wasted on a boat.”
Dad snorts. “There’s a misplaced sense of patriotism for you.”
Bobby chuckles.
Sam turns to Dean again. “You won’t join, will you?”
Dean scoffs. “I’m sixteen, Sam. I can’t.”
He swallows. “It just started two weeks ago.”
Dean leans on the chair arm. “Look, the United States got into the Great War and it was over in a year and a half. Stop worrying. I’m staying right here where I’m needed.”
Sam nods, still uneasy. “Okay.”
In another room, Bobby’s huge Philips radio sputters to life. The voice of the announcer fills the house. Dean knows just where Dad is: sitting alone at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee and staring straight ahead.
July 28, 1944
Aldbourne, England
The tip of his knife was catching on a knot of wood. Twenty solid minutes Dean had been carving, but so far his runes and sigils were little more than scratches on the beams of his bunk. “Come on,” he muttered through clenched teeth, maneuvering his arm into a slightly less unworkable angle. Outside, a bird raised a racket like a drunk in an alley. The point of the knife skittered over the wood, scratching the line of a circle. “Damn it,” he hissed, just as the door to the barracks swung open. He glared up at the mattress above him. “For the last time, I’m not coming to London!”
“You’re in luck, then,” said a voice that didn’t belong to Babe. “I wasn’t offering.”
Dean slipped the knife under his covers and scooted forward. Giddy Orland stood in the middle of his quarters, hands in his pockets. “Hi,” said Dean, puzzled. Giddy bent to peer under the bunk.
“What’re you doing?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, getting to his feet. “Just my girl’s name, you know. There something I can help you with?”
“No.” Giddy examined the other empty beds. “Just checking to see who’s sticking around this weekend.”
Dean crossed his arms. “What, you trying to set up a baseball game or something?”
Giddy smiled. “I’m lousy on the infield, but that’s not a bad idea.”
Dean watched him. The man was nothing like the nervous wreck he’d seen at the Blue Boar. “Why aren’t you on the train to London? Everyone else couldn’t skip out fast enough.”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen it. By the way.” He nodded at Dean’s bed. “I really don’t care if you keep going.”
Dean paused. “You’re not supposed to report destruction of army property or anything?”
“Some things are more important,” said Giddy, eyes still on the bunk. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
He leaned against the bedpost, trying to stay casual. “Carmen.”
Giddy crouched down and peered underneath the bunk. “I’d go with runes if I had to carve curvy letters too,” he said dryly.
That stopped Dean cold. “You know what these are?” Giddy looked back at him, his expression hopeful. Dean stared at him. “Do you hunt?”
“What?” The small smile fell off Giddy’s face. “I’m from Traverse City, Michigan,” he said uncertainly.
“But you recognize these,” Dean prompted.
“I know you’ll need them,” he said, before straightening suddenly and clamming up. He edged back toward the door. “I shouldn’t stay.”
Dean frowned. “What? Why?”
Giddy shook his head. “Just watch yourself, Winchester, all right? Stick with Easy.”
Before Dean could voice another question, he was gone. Dean hurried out the door, but Giddy was out of sight, lost in the rows of barracks. One of the rooftop ravens took off, its partner clacking its beak after it. Dean watched it wing against the pale evening sky, a dark, ragged shape against an otherwise clear backdrop.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Now I’m definitely unsettled.”
* * *
The best place to take Giddy’s advice, no matter how weird, was the Blue Boar. Dean came expecting the usual madhouse, but found the pub mostly empty: more men must have made off for London than he’d thought.
One corner was lively, however. Willand, of all people, was holding court with a handful of Easy guys. Dean recognized them as Toccoa men, soldiers who’d been with the unit since it was formed in ‘42. All of them had been through Normandy. Don Malarkey was explaining the workings of a mortar squad with an enthusiasm he usually reserved for Glenn Miller. George Luz kept trying to talk over him and change the topic to girls. Pat Christenson listened with his neck bent, sketching on a napkin; Skip Muck kept quiet, his normally merry eyes narrowed as he watched the rest and chain-smoked.
“Now that’s an improvement,” Willand pronounced as Dean approached, beer in hand. “We certainly didn’t have ourselves together like that in my day.” He caught sight of Dean and beamed. “Private! Pull up a chair and join us, won’t you? I’m sure there’s plenty you’ll learn from these men.”
Dean glanced at the faces of the vets, who looked back at him with a much more muted welome. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’m just passing through.”
“Oh, come now!” Willand gestured at the table. “Please, I must insist.”
Luz’s mouth twisted around his cigarette. “You heard the man, Winchester. Unless you got other plans.”
After a moment, Dean had to smile. “Guess I don’t.”
Luz swatted at Christenson. “Here, make some room.”
Dean took a seat. “So, what’re we talking about?”
“Our buddy here is an arms nut,” said Muck, elbows propped up on the table. “And a bloodthirsty one at that.”
Willand chuckled. “Nonsense. It doesn’t count when they’re Jerries. I think it’s important to hit the enemy with everything you’ve got.”
Dean paused, his beer halfway to his mouth. “Don’t loose lips sink ships or something?”
Malarkey snorted. “We’re not saying anything the Krauts don’t already know about! Isn’t that right?”
“Corporal Christenson,” said Willand, leaning forward so his medals jangled. “Your .30-caliber machine gun must be a work of art. You should be very proud of it.”
“Hey, I got an idea,” said Luz. “Winchester, you want to answer some questions?”
Dean set down his mug. “Animal, vegetable or mineral, you mean?”
“Oh, animal,” said Luz, eyes gleaming. “Is it true you come from a family of snake-throwers?”
He coughed, nearly knocking his beer over. “You’re serious?” He laughed. “No, I’m not a snake-thrower. Or an Okie. That’s a good one, though, I’m impressed. Anyone else?”
“Private Winchester,” said Willand, taking his time with Dean’s name, “have you lost that pin I gave you?”
Dean faced him. “No, I’ve still got it.”
Willand folded his hands. “It was a gift, shouldn’t you be wearing it?” Malarkey shot Muck an amused sidelong glance; Muck just shook his head.
“It’s a great pin,” said Dean, “but it’s pretty non-regulation.”
“Oh, but that hasn’t stopped you yet,” said Willand. “Or others: many soldiers go into battle wearing tokens.”
Luz craned his neck. “What’d he give you?”
“One of these.” Willand reached for his chest and plucked another Green Man pin from his jacket. Luz took it and held it up to the light, squinting.
“You don’t mind my asking, but what the hell is it?”
“It’s for Wiltshire,” said Willand enthusiastically. “For Britain. I make them myself.” Luz pulled a bemused face and passed the pin to Christenson. Willand settled back into his seat. “I hope you’ll sport it in the future.”
Dean bowed his head, lifting his glass. “Absolutely.”
“You’re welcome. Now.” Willand smiled at him. “What is your specialty in the field, Private Winchester? How will you be defeating the Germans?”
The tentative good will around the table evaporated. Dean drew his shoulders in. “I haven’t been in the field yet,” he said, his face growing hot.
“But don’t worry,” Malarkey interrupted, his cheer faintly forced, “the war’s over once we get him there.”
The beat lasted a moment too long before Willand turned aside. “Let me tell you about how far you’ve come,” he began. “Gunnery evolves so quickly, doesn’t it?”
* * *
“Hey, you cutting out?”
Dean looked down to see Luz at his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said.
“Great, me too.” He held out a hand in front of him. “What, you’re waiting for an invitation? Door’s right there, go.”
Dean pushed through, slipping his hat from his belt with his free hand. “You’re walking me home?” he asked, somewhat amused.
“You’re damn right,” said Luz, patting down his jacket for his Lucky Strikes. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a rabid dog out here. Not to mention an insufferable jackass back there.”
Dean bowed his head and laughed. “Yeah, I’ll take the dog, personally.”
“No kidding, right?” Luz jammed his cigarette between his lips and leaned into his lighter. “I swear to God, that guy has just figured out there’s troops stationed here. We were in Aldbourne eight, nine months and I never saw the man. We get back from Normandy, boom, he can’t keep his hands off us. Probably just now figured out there’s a war on.”
Dean frowned. “But he’s from around here, isn’t he?”
Luz shrugged. “So he says. I dunno, maybe he’s been off in a cottage making weird jewelry since the Great War. Who cares? He ain’t interested in anything interesting.” He screwed up his face in an apt caricature of Willand’s expression. “‘Now, troopers, the floor plan of the factory which makes your M1 Garand rifle is a most fascinating design.’ Who the hell knows how he knows all this stuff.”
Dean grinned at the impersonation. “Not bad.”
“Thank you,” said Luz cheerfully. “You should hear my Major Horton, it won a ribbon at the fair last year.” The lit end of his smoke flared red briefly. “Say, by the way, if you’re not an Okie and you’re not a snake-thrower, what are you?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “A little black terrier, apparently.”
Luz chuckled. “Ah, that’s right. Still, could be worse - you get to ride around with a dewy-eyed broad with a swell pair of shoes, and in glorious Technicolor too.”
Dean nodded slowly. “Hadn’t really thought of it that way.”
“It’s what they keep me around for.”
They walked in silence for a moment while Luz smoked his cigarette. “Hey,” said Dean, “can I ask you something?”
“You didn’t just?” He waved it off. “Nah, go on.”
“Giddy Orland came by my quarters, just before I came out here.” He paused. “Did something happen to him?”
The merriment left Luz’s face. “What do you mean?”
Dean grimaced a little. “I don’t know, it was just…” He glanced at Luz. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Hey.” Luz gestured with his Lucky Strike. “Listen, you give Giddy a little space, all right? God knows what I’d do if I couldn’t find my unit for nine days in combat.” His mouth tightened. “Giddy’s fine. He’s in my platoon, I see him every day. Don’t worry about it.”
“He told me I should stick with Easy,” Dean said, angling for another opening.
Luz smiled. “He’s right about that. Jesus, Winchester, think of it, you could be in Dog Company. You know they got this lieutenant who’s fucking crazy, right? You heard the stories about Speirs yet?”
Dean opened his mouth to reply; before he could speak, a flash of white glided past an open space between hedges, liquid and confident in its gait. They both stopped in their tracks. The sound of unshod hooves echoed unseen nearby.
“Did somebody lose a horse?” said Luz, baffled.
Dean listened for more. “Or a unicorn, if we’re lucky.” Luz chuckled; Dean couldn’t bring himself to smile. “You should stay here,” he said, one hand edging toward his belt.
The look Luz shot him was skeptical. “It’s a horse.”
“Let’s hope.” Dean started after it.
Luz hurried after. “What else would it be?”
The horse was waiting for them at the edge of the barracks, nearly glowing in the light of the moon. “Jesus, would you look at that,” said Luz, his jaw slack. “Where’s the Knights of the Round Table, huh?” The horse blinked at them, its eyes dark pools set in a pale face. “It’s probably lost,” he continued, rapt. “These barracks used to be stables, before we came. Maybe it’s confused.”
Dean said nothing, but began to move toward the horse. It pawed the ground and whickered softly. Luz lifted both eyebrows. “So, Winchester - you, ah, know something about horses? From your upbringing?”
“You got any steel on you?” he said, eyes on the horse.
“‘Fraid I’m fresh out,” said Luz, dropping his smoke and grinding the butt under his heel. “What for?”
The horse tossed its head with a snort. It started walking toward Luz, arcing away from Dean. Its tracks were muddy behind it. “Whoa,” said Luz, holding up both hands in front of him. “Little help here?”
“Don’t touch it!” Dean snapped.
“What?”
Dean dug into his jacket. “It’s not a horse. Get out of here.”
“What, are you nuts?” Luz gestured. “Of course it’s-”
The horse hissed at them, baring a mouth full of needle-sharp fangs. “Jesus!” Luz yelped, stumbling backward. The horse reared up, its mane and tail flinging brackish water. Dean whipped out his knife and ducked beneath the creature’s thrashing front legs. He managed to graze its chest with the edge before one sharp hoof caught him squarely in his ribcage. He felt the crack of bone before he landed on his back.
The creature lunged forward and tore at his shoulder with its teeth. Dimly, Dean was aware of Luz bellowing through the empty barracks for help. Foul water sprayed him from the creature’s coat: it bent over him again, jaws open, one back foot crushing his ankle. Dean gripped the knife handle again, trying to focus on the creature’s face. The whiteness of its coat had tarnished, spotted with black patches of rot. In the space of a moment, Dean jackknifed up, plunging the blade into the creature’s neck to the hilt. The creature screamed, its cry halfway between a beast’s and a man’s. It staggered off him, trying to slam and shake the knife out of its flesh. Dean thudded to the ground, his breath shallow. He closed his eyes and listened to the creature dissolve into liquid, which seeped back over him and into the hard-packed earth.
part three
“All right, men.” His voice carried without having to shout. “Remember, these are live rounds. This isn’t standard procedure, but there’s no substitute, and you don’t want to learn this in combat. Keep your heads down and be careful so you can make it to the objective safely. Doc Roe is right here if anybody needs him.” The solemn medic stood at Winters’ side, his hand already resting on his supply bag.
The morning was calm and quiet, save for the heavy breathing of the replacements. Winters nodded to his sergeants. Guarnere yelled for his squad to shoot high, and Grant ordered his boys to hit the ground. Dean dropped flat into the dirt. He stared at the soles of the boots in front of him, bracing himself for the opening shots. The chin strap on his helmet pinched against his throat. His amulet and dog tags dug into his chest.
The crack of ammunition came close on Guarnere’s word. Dean pushed himself forward, clutching his rifle. Hot bullet casings dropped out of the air. Some men cursed, but most stayed silent. Dean grappled with the raw earth, imagining mortar fire and German machine guns; he had to wonder if this was how it would be when it finally happened.
The platoon closed the fifty yards to the row of fresh trenches. They all survived. Winters nodded, and ordered the riflemen to reload.
* * *
“Get a load of this,” Babe muttered. He nodded at the civilian by the side of the road. The man was powerfully built, with a full graying beard and an ornate wooden cane. Pins studded his jacket, some presumably military, some unrecognizable. He tugged at his cap, calling out greetings to the American soldiers.
“He was at the pub last night,” said Dean, watching him.
“We go out and you notice that?” Babe snorted. “And here I thought you were trawling for girls.”
“I was,” Dean said, allowing himself a smile. “I just didn’t find the right one.”
Babe clucked his tongue. “Ah, see, that’s what you get for bein’ picky.”
“Boys!” the man called out as they approached. “Boys, what was all that? Surely the Krauts haven’t come over here.”
“Just a training exercise, buddy,” said Dean. “Nothing to worry about.”
The man leaned on his cane and took up the march beside them. “Listen to me, son. Those shots sounded real, and if you’re not using blanks, there’s things here in Wiltshire that need to be shot.”
“Yeah?” Dean glanced at Babe, who rolled his eyes. “Like who?”
“Not who,” the man said darkly. “What. Starting with that rabid dog that attacked your boys last night.”
Babe’s smirk fell away. “What?”
The man’s eyes went wide. “You haven’t heard this? Yes, two of your Airborne friends ran into a great horrible hound. One of them’s in hospital for it.”
Dean focused on his medals. “What’s your name, pal?”
“Willand,” he said, not flagging in the slightest. “Will you boys do us the favor of getting rid of it? I don’t like the thought of a great dangerous dog running around these parts.”
Dean adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “Well, Mr. Willand, if we see something, we’ll take care of it, how’s that?”
Willand beamed. “Bless you, son! Here, here, as a token of my appreciation.” He plucked a silver pin off his jacket and held it out. Somewhat bemused, Dean took it. “I’m going to warn the others,” Willand said earnestly, and stepped away from the column.
Babe twisted his head to watch him hail the rest of the platoon. “Well, looks like you made a new friend,” he said. “What’d he give you?”
Dean squinted. The pin was small, the size of a finger joint, but the detail was exquisite: a wild face peered out from a mane of leaves and vines. “It’s a Green Man,” he said, surprised, and looked over his shoulder. Willand was chatting with some replacements, his whole bearing animated.
“A what?” Babe held out his hand. “Lemme see that.” Dean handed him the pin. Babe whistled. “Yeah, you lucked out. Looks to me like he unloaded an ugly on you.”
Dean took it back. “Least he gives me presents when I volunteer to go dog-catching.”
Babe canted his head. “You ain’t gonna go looking for this dog, are you? I mean, you do stupid things for fun, sure, but that ain’t even perversely fun.”
“That pretty much sums it up,” Dean said. He stared at the Green Man. Its face told him nothing.
December 23, 1941
Lawrence County, South Dakota
Sam settles back in the armchair Indian-style, the enormous monograph spread over his knees. “You think we’ll get snowed in here for Christmas?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dean glances up from cleaning the guns. “It’d be almost as good as being snowed in at the library.”
“Shut up,” Sam says. “Anyway, don’t pretend like you don’t like it here too.”
Dean pointedly scans the cluttered room. “It’s Bobby’s house. We’ve been here tons of times.”
Sam bends his neck, eyes on his book. “I like it.”
Dean picks up a swab in one hand and the barrel of a sawed-off in the other. “Maybe Bobby can pick up the Minneapolis station. They’d know.”
“Yeah, good luck getting the radio on. Dad won’t want to listen to the news.” He turns a page. “I think he doesn’t want to hear about the war.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got good reason,” says Dean. “He already fought the Germans once. I’d be mad too if they didn’t learn their lesson.” Sam doesn’t reply, which Dean will take as a victory. They each turn to their tasks again in silence.
Bobby’s dog Pershing begins to bark outside. “There they are,” says Dean, and the front door swings open, welcoming in a shock of cold.
“Hey boys!” Bobby calls. Dean sets the shotgun on the table, and Sam follows him into the foyer, book tucked under his arm. Dad is twisting the lock shut, while Bobby lifts his eyebrows at them, mouth hidden behind his grizzled beard. “You been behaving?”
Dean pulls a wry face. “Not really, but we cleaned up pretty good, so nothing to worry about.” He hovers by Dad’s elbow. “You need any help with anything?”
Dad looks up and smiles a little. “Nah, we were offloading. Shop in Omaha had a pretty hungry buyer.”
Sam grins back at him. “What were you selling?”
Bobby rolls his shoulders. “Protective stuff, mostly. Charms, wards, sigils.” He sniffs. “Market for amulets has gone through the roof. People these days want good luck they can carry.”
“Let’s go inside to the fire, huh?” Dad ushers them back. “Your old man’s freezing.”
Bobby shrugs off his hefty coat and sets it on a hook. He looks down at Sam’s light reading. “You planning a trip to Central Asia?”
Sam displays a spread of grainy black and white photographs: Tibetan monasteries and Sanskrit lettering fill both pages. “It talks about tulpas,” he says eagerly. “They’re spirits you create with your mind.”
Dad cuffed him briefly around the shoulders. “Don’t need a spell to imagine things into life. Come on.”
“Is there going to be snow?” Sam asks, trailing after him.
“Don’t know,” says Dad. “We’ll see.”
The house is comfortable again with Bobby and Dad in it. Once news has been shared and coffee brewed, Dad sends Dean back to gun-cleaning, and Sam with him. He and Bobby take up seats at the kitchen table, quiet until the boys both leave. Dean settles into his routine, pouring over an old Smith & Wesson pistol they use for silver bullets. Sam curls up with his book again.
Dean’s ears prick up at the sound of Dad’s voice. “You hear about Wayne Stebbins?”
“Yup,” says Bobby. “Shame.” A chair in the kitchen creaks. “What was it, werewolf?”
Sam looks up from his pages. Dean holds a finger to his mouth.
“Spoke to Marlene myself. They think it was a demon.”
“Jesus.”
“There are barely hunters enough to take care of what we got,” sighs Bobby. “Last thing we need is demons getting stirred up.”
“You know they’re going to love this war,” says Dad, his voice flat. “God knows they did last time.”
“I saw it,” says Bobby, and both of them are quiet.
Sam looks at Dean, his brow knitted. “Demons?” he whispers.
“Shut up,” hisses Dean.
“You know Amy Wilkes,” Bobby says, “out in Charleston?”
“West Virginia?”
“South Carolina.” He pauses to take a slurp of coffee. “Had a letter that her boy’s joined the Navy.”
Dad grunts. “She mad?”
“As a hellcat. Thinks he’ll be wasted on a boat.”
Dad snorts. “There’s a misplaced sense of patriotism for you.”
Bobby chuckles.
Sam turns to Dean again. “You won’t join, will you?”
Dean scoffs. “I’m sixteen, Sam. I can’t.”
He swallows. “It just started two weeks ago.”
Dean leans on the chair arm. “Look, the United States got into the Great War and it was over in a year and a half. Stop worrying. I’m staying right here where I’m needed.”
Sam nods, still uneasy. “Okay.”
In another room, Bobby’s huge Philips radio sputters to life. The voice of the announcer fills the house. Dean knows just where Dad is: sitting alone at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee and staring straight ahead.
July 28, 1944
Aldbourne, England
The tip of his knife was catching on a knot of wood. Twenty solid minutes Dean had been carving, but so far his runes and sigils were little more than scratches on the beams of his bunk. “Come on,” he muttered through clenched teeth, maneuvering his arm into a slightly less unworkable angle. Outside, a bird raised a racket like a drunk in an alley. The point of the knife skittered over the wood, scratching the line of a circle. “Damn it,” he hissed, just as the door to the barracks swung open. He glared up at the mattress above him. “For the last time, I’m not coming to London!”
“You’re in luck, then,” said a voice that didn’t belong to Babe. “I wasn’t offering.”
Dean slipped the knife under his covers and scooted forward. Giddy Orland stood in the middle of his quarters, hands in his pockets. “Hi,” said Dean, puzzled. Giddy bent to peer under the bunk.
“What’re you doing?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, getting to his feet. “Just my girl’s name, you know. There something I can help you with?”
“No.” Giddy examined the other empty beds. “Just checking to see who’s sticking around this weekend.”
Dean crossed his arms. “What, you trying to set up a baseball game or something?”
Giddy smiled. “I’m lousy on the infield, but that’s not a bad idea.”
Dean watched him. The man was nothing like the nervous wreck he’d seen at the Blue Boar. “Why aren’t you on the train to London? Everyone else couldn’t skip out fast enough.”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen it. By the way.” He nodded at Dean’s bed. “I really don’t care if you keep going.”
Dean paused. “You’re not supposed to report destruction of army property or anything?”
“Some things are more important,” said Giddy, eyes still on the bunk. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
He leaned against the bedpost, trying to stay casual. “Carmen.”
Giddy crouched down and peered underneath the bunk. “I’d go with runes if I had to carve curvy letters too,” he said dryly.
That stopped Dean cold. “You know what these are?” Giddy looked back at him, his expression hopeful. Dean stared at him. “Do you hunt?”
“What?” The small smile fell off Giddy’s face. “I’m from Traverse City, Michigan,” he said uncertainly.
“But you recognize these,” Dean prompted.
“I know you’ll need them,” he said, before straightening suddenly and clamming up. He edged back toward the door. “I shouldn’t stay.”
Dean frowned. “What? Why?”
Giddy shook his head. “Just watch yourself, Winchester, all right? Stick with Easy.”
Before Dean could voice another question, he was gone. Dean hurried out the door, but Giddy was out of sight, lost in the rows of barracks. One of the rooftop ravens took off, its partner clacking its beak after it. Dean watched it wing against the pale evening sky, a dark, ragged shape against an otherwise clear backdrop.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Now I’m definitely unsettled.”
* * *
The best place to take Giddy’s advice, no matter how weird, was the Blue Boar. Dean came expecting the usual madhouse, but found the pub mostly empty: more men must have made off for London than he’d thought.
One corner was lively, however. Willand, of all people, was holding court with a handful of Easy guys. Dean recognized them as Toccoa men, soldiers who’d been with the unit since it was formed in ‘42. All of them had been through Normandy. Don Malarkey was explaining the workings of a mortar squad with an enthusiasm he usually reserved for Glenn Miller. George Luz kept trying to talk over him and change the topic to girls. Pat Christenson listened with his neck bent, sketching on a napkin; Skip Muck kept quiet, his normally merry eyes narrowed as he watched the rest and chain-smoked.
“Now that’s an improvement,” Willand pronounced as Dean approached, beer in hand. “We certainly didn’t have ourselves together like that in my day.” He caught sight of Dean and beamed. “Private! Pull up a chair and join us, won’t you? I’m sure there’s plenty you’ll learn from these men.”
Dean glanced at the faces of the vets, who looked back at him with a much more muted welome. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’m just passing through.”
“Oh, come now!” Willand gestured at the table. “Please, I must insist.”
Luz’s mouth twisted around his cigarette. “You heard the man, Winchester. Unless you got other plans.”
After a moment, Dean had to smile. “Guess I don’t.”
Luz swatted at Christenson. “Here, make some room.”
Dean took a seat. “So, what’re we talking about?”
“Our buddy here is an arms nut,” said Muck, elbows propped up on the table. “And a bloodthirsty one at that.”
Willand chuckled. “Nonsense. It doesn’t count when they’re Jerries. I think it’s important to hit the enemy with everything you’ve got.”
Dean paused, his beer halfway to his mouth. “Don’t loose lips sink ships or something?”
Malarkey snorted. “We’re not saying anything the Krauts don’t already know about! Isn’t that right?”
“Corporal Christenson,” said Willand, leaning forward so his medals jangled. “Your .30-caliber machine gun must be a work of art. You should be very proud of it.”
“Hey, I got an idea,” said Luz. “Winchester, you want to answer some questions?”
Dean set down his mug. “Animal, vegetable or mineral, you mean?”
“Oh, animal,” said Luz, eyes gleaming. “Is it true you come from a family of snake-throwers?”
He coughed, nearly knocking his beer over. “You’re serious?” He laughed. “No, I’m not a snake-thrower. Or an Okie. That’s a good one, though, I’m impressed. Anyone else?”
“Private Winchester,” said Willand, taking his time with Dean’s name, “have you lost that pin I gave you?”
Dean faced him. “No, I’ve still got it.”
Willand folded his hands. “It was a gift, shouldn’t you be wearing it?” Malarkey shot Muck an amused sidelong glance; Muck just shook his head.
“It’s a great pin,” said Dean, “but it’s pretty non-regulation.”
“Oh, but that hasn’t stopped you yet,” said Willand. “Or others: many soldiers go into battle wearing tokens.”
Luz craned his neck. “What’d he give you?”
“One of these.” Willand reached for his chest and plucked another Green Man pin from his jacket. Luz took it and held it up to the light, squinting.
“You don’t mind my asking, but what the hell is it?”
“It’s for Wiltshire,” said Willand enthusiastically. “For Britain. I make them myself.” Luz pulled a bemused face and passed the pin to Christenson. Willand settled back into his seat. “I hope you’ll sport it in the future.”
Dean bowed his head, lifting his glass. “Absolutely.”
“You’re welcome. Now.” Willand smiled at him. “What is your specialty in the field, Private Winchester? How will you be defeating the Germans?”
The tentative good will around the table evaporated. Dean drew his shoulders in. “I haven’t been in the field yet,” he said, his face growing hot.
“But don’t worry,” Malarkey interrupted, his cheer faintly forced, “the war’s over once we get him there.”
The beat lasted a moment too long before Willand turned aside. “Let me tell you about how far you’ve come,” he began. “Gunnery evolves so quickly, doesn’t it?”
* * *
“Hey, you cutting out?”
Dean looked down to see Luz at his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said.
“Great, me too.” He held out a hand in front of him. “What, you’re waiting for an invitation? Door’s right there, go.”
Dean pushed through, slipping his hat from his belt with his free hand. “You’re walking me home?” he asked, somewhat amused.
“You’re damn right,” said Luz, patting down his jacket for his Lucky Strikes. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a rabid dog out here. Not to mention an insufferable jackass back there.”
Dean bowed his head and laughed. “Yeah, I’ll take the dog, personally.”
“No kidding, right?” Luz jammed his cigarette between his lips and leaned into his lighter. “I swear to God, that guy has just figured out there’s troops stationed here. We were in Aldbourne eight, nine months and I never saw the man. We get back from Normandy, boom, he can’t keep his hands off us. Probably just now figured out there’s a war on.”
Dean frowned. “But he’s from around here, isn’t he?”
Luz shrugged. “So he says. I dunno, maybe he’s been off in a cottage making weird jewelry since the Great War. Who cares? He ain’t interested in anything interesting.” He screwed up his face in an apt caricature of Willand’s expression. “‘Now, troopers, the floor plan of the factory which makes your M1 Garand rifle is a most fascinating design.’ Who the hell knows how he knows all this stuff.”
Dean grinned at the impersonation. “Not bad.”
“Thank you,” said Luz cheerfully. “You should hear my Major Horton, it won a ribbon at the fair last year.” The lit end of his smoke flared red briefly. “Say, by the way, if you’re not an Okie and you’re not a snake-thrower, what are you?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “A little black terrier, apparently.”
Luz chuckled. “Ah, that’s right. Still, could be worse - you get to ride around with a dewy-eyed broad with a swell pair of shoes, and in glorious Technicolor too.”
Dean nodded slowly. “Hadn’t really thought of it that way.”
“It’s what they keep me around for.”
They walked in silence for a moment while Luz smoked his cigarette. “Hey,” said Dean, “can I ask you something?”
“You didn’t just?” He waved it off. “Nah, go on.”
“Giddy Orland came by my quarters, just before I came out here.” He paused. “Did something happen to him?”
The merriment left Luz’s face. “What do you mean?”
Dean grimaced a little. “I don’t know, it was just…” He glanced at Luz. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Hey.” Luz gestured with his Lucky Strike. “Listen, you give Giddy a little space, all right? God knows what I’d do if I couldn’t find my unit for nine days in combat.” His mouth tightened. “Giddy’s fine. He’s in my platoon, I see him every day. Don’t worry about it.”
“He told me I should stick with Easy,” Dean said, angling for another opening.
Luz smiled. “He’s right about that. Jesus, Winchester, think of it, you could be in Dog Company. You know they got this lieutenant who’s fucking crazy, right? You heard the stories about Speirs yet?”
Dean opened his mouth to reply; before he could speak, a flash of white glided past an open space between hedges, liquid and confident in its gait. They both stopped in their tracks. The sound of unshod hooves echoed unseen nearby.
“Did somebody lose a horse?” said Luz, baffled.
Dean listened for more. “Or a unicorn, if we’re lucky.” Luz chuckled; Dean couldn’t bring himself to smile. “You should stay here,” he said, one hand edging toward his belt.
The look Luz shot him was skeptical. “It’s a horse.”
“Let’s hope.” Dean started after it.
Luz hurried after. “What else would it be?”
The horse was waiting for them at the edge of the barracks, nearly glowing in the light of the moon. “Jesus, would you look at that,” said Luz, his jaw slack. “Where’s the Knights of the Round Table, huh?” The horse blinked at them, its eyes dark pools set in a pale face. “It’s probably lost,” he continued, rapt. “These barracks used to be stables, before we came. Maybe it’s confused.”
Dean said nothing, but began to move toward the horse. It pawed the ground and whickered softly. Luz lifted both eyebrows. “So, Winchester - you, ah, know something about horses? From your upbringing?”
“You got any steel on you?” he said, eyes on the horse.
“‘Fraid I’m fresh out,” said Luz, dropping his smoke and grinding the butt under his heel. “What for?”
The horse tossed its head with a snort. It started walking toward Luz, arcing away from Dean. Its tracks were muddy behind it. “Whoa,” said Luz, holding up both hands in front of him. “Little help here?”
“Don’t touch it!” Dean snapped.
“What?”
Dean dug into his jacket. “It’s not a horse. Get out of here.”
“What, are you nuts?” Luz gestured. “Of course it’s-”
The horse hissed at them, baring a mouth full of needle-sharp fangs. “Jesus!” Luz yelped, stumbling backward. The horse reared up, its mane and tail flinging brackish water. Dean whipped out his knife and ducked beneath the creature’s thrashing front legs. He managed to graze its chest with the edge before one sharp hoof caught him squarely in his ribcage. He felt the crack of bone before he landed on his back.
The creature lunged forward and tore at his shoulder with its teeth. Dimly, Dean was aware of Luz bellowing through the empty barracks for help. Foul water sprayed him from the creature’s coat: it bent over him again, jaws open, one back foot crushing his ankle. Dean gripped the knife handle again, trying to focus on the creature’s face. The whiteness of its coat had tarnished, spotted with black patches of rot. In the space of a moment, Dean jackknifed up, plunging the blade into the creature’s neck to the hilt. The creature screamed, its cry halfway between a beast’s and a man’s. It staggered off him, trying to slam and shake the knife out of its flesh. Dean thudded to the ground, his breath shallow. He closed his eyes and listened to the creature dissolve into liquid, which seeped back over him and into the hard-packed earth.
part three